My bare feet graze the trolley’s metal floor.The apricot-flamed scarfwinds its way from head to toe, a cotton shield,and tucks lightly around you: my silent, hiddenson. You are quiet and eager.My eyes dart, diligent, from your eyesto chin to forehead, tracing the well-worncircuit of you. My gaze is only yours,and you, my copper-gauzed world.

We sit in a row on the pressed wood bench: dollson a playroom shelf, our tourists queued upoutside the museum. Lost in thoughts and dreams.The split secondsbetween the now and the nextare frozen in frame--

your tongue darts back and forth--your coo a small mewing--

we are unsuspectingpassengers for one moment more,and then the secondswill collapse into each other,and we will follow.

Catherine Ruffing Drotleff

A non-profit fundraiser by day, and a poet by night, Catherine Ruffing Drotleff writes to place herself in the world and to observe that place over time and space. A Midwesterner by birthright and a Chicagoan by choice, Catherine's work has appeared in Rattle and Blue Hour Magazine.

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